Eta Carinae
by kinneas
Summary: Anders/M!Hawke. A study of the three years it takes Anders and Hawke to fall - in love, and otherwise. UPDATE: Eta, Epilogue. Porny sequel of sorts added.
1. Eta Carinae

**Eta Carinae**

Anders' words have so much weight to them. Granted, the man's an hour out of mercy-killing his own friend, his friend who'd already undergone a fate worse than or at least comparable to death. But every word from his lips seems to carry all the burdens of the world. Garrett's never dealt with anything quite like it.

Kirkwall has not been easy, but tonight, slammed with the harsh reality of what fate might await his little sister, it seems darker than usual.

Not least because they're in a place called _Darktown_.

"He is no longer my friend Justice," Anders says, haunted and heavy. "He is a force of vengeance, and he has no grasp of mercy."

The dim light hits Anders' face just so, and the air is oppressive. It's not even approaching appropriate, but Garrett can't help himself, he never can, it just _slips out_.

"So that explains your whole sexy, tortured look."

And now he feels like a bit of a prat, which is unusual in itself, but Anders smiles softly, almost appreciatively, certainly not pissed off-edly, and Garrett shoves the relief that threatened to flood him _back bloody down_.

* * *

><p>At least this time, after a few days have passed, Anders nods when Garrett enters the clinic, which is a big improvement over his first 'greeting'. He's in a good mood, or what Garrett assumes is a good mood for Anders.<p>

Under that mirth, though, there's still a boiling righteousness.

Anders talks about Justice again, and it's surreal, not just because he's a willing host to a bloody _spirit_, but because he's both so sad and fond of it. It's a strange, fascinating dichotomy, so of course Garrett can't help himself from another terrible flirting decision that Anders pointedly ignores, apparently opting instead to say words like _Karl_ and _first_ and legitimate implications of sticky-icky.

"You... and _Karl_?" Garrett asks, and _Maker_ that comes out much more dismayed than is strictly tactful. Not that being Tranquil ever did anything for anyone's looks, but Karl was so... _Karl_. And Anders is so _not_.

"...Does that bother you?" Anders asks. "That I've been with men?" Garrett can hear it now, no longer buried beneath the muck of personal tragedy, the hinting, _testing_. He knows this delicate game, but he's shameless enough that he hasn't bothered with it in years. Maybe Anders isn't ignoring him as much as he thought.

Garrett grins as some part of his soul pulls those rusty boots back on; he can play, too.

"I'm just glad it didn't take me any longer to find out."

Anders smiles, tacit yet warm, and short-lived.

It's remarkable - and a bit unsettling - how quickly Anders makes that shift from righteous blue rage to incorrigible charm and back again. Training about all things demon-y went to Bethany, so too any ethics lessons about spirits-versus-demons, but Garrett still grew up with an apostate father, apostate little sister, and a healthy respect for the dangers of magic.

Cracks of the immortal realm itself open in Anders' skin, and his voice is tinged with fury but also _compassion_ for the families like Garrett's, like _Father's_, always on the run for the reprehensible crime of wanting to be free, to be together.

This is too much. He's weighed down, and anyone who's ever seen him fight knows he relies on being _light_, and he just can't deal with this.

"You're starting to _glow_ again," Garrett says, and that's all it takes for the quake of the Fade to dissipate, leaving only Anders in its wake.

Anders closes his eyes, takes a breath. "Yes," he says. "And since yours is the only head here, and I don't want to rip it off, I should stop." He sighs. "Sorry."

Yes, he should, and Garrett is glad that he does, and they have so much to do before the expedition, but the hint of dejection lingering on Anders' face is... distracting.

"Anders," he says, stopping before they can leave the clinic. He fixes him with rare, practically fabled Garrett-sincerity, and it _has_ to be more than adequate recompense for his normal bullshit. Maker, but he'll feel bad if he doesn't get this out.

"For what it's worth, you did the right thing, with Justice and all. He was your friend, and you tried, at least."

"You know," Anders says teasingly, his eyes crinkling, "underneath that scruffy exterior, I think _you've_ got a bit of a soft heart."

"You wound me," Garrett says, clutching at his chest. "Just don't go around telling everyone, they'll all start coming to me with their problems." Then he winks and bounds on ahead, eager to get out of Darktown.

* * *

><p>Anders can't concentrate on writing. It's the first time in months, since his Joining of a different sort.<p>

His eyes keep panning over to his coat, still airing out from the dank slaver cave, and he knows he's still flustered from before.

Aveline and the elf, Fenris, had both vehemently protested it, and Anders has been so full of rage and despair lately that he genuinely expected Hawke to agree. His sister is a mage, true, but he is _not_, and hypocrisy is not exactly beyond the ken of humankind, or really _any_ kind.

So, then, when Hawke told Feynriel he could go live with the Dalish, that he'd help escort him up there, that he'd do his best to reassure his mother this was the only real solution...

Quite frankly, Anders is surprised little hearts didn't float out of his eyes and pop like bubbles on the stalactites.

Hawke is something special. Anders has known this since that first day, when he looked him in the eye and fired off a magnificent mini-speech on mage rights that might as well have been the manifesto's preamble. And then he followed it with a joke, something crass about templar skirts, because Hawke has the worst case of lack of tact Anders has ever _seen_, except for maybe Oghren, but as a general rule dwarves do not count.

Anders smiles to himself.

The twinges of foreign doubts, doubts about distraction, doubts about trust, doubts he knows he would never have had _before_, but doubts that are _correct_, flare up, and Anders dips his drying quill in ink.

Unfortunately only literally.

* * *

><p>A week after they escape the Deep Roads, Hawke is still inconsolable about Bethany. Inconsolable in the sense that, if anyone mentions the Gallows to him, he shoos them away with a wink and a nasty joke. For all his talk, or perhaps because of it, Hawke seems to be masterclass in deflection.<p>

He's all but shut himself up with Varric for the past few days, no doubt working out the logistics of who gets which gold crown or shiny string of pearls, but ultimately, Anders suspects, distracting himself from thinking too deeply.

It's a bit of a surprise, then, when Hawke shows up at the doors of his clinic, all swagger but beard tellingly unkempt, and asks him if he's too busy being a noble knight of the poor to talk for a minute.

Anders frowns. No one is in need of immediate care, but the weeks he's spent in the Deep Roads have left him with a welling need to _work_. He wants to tell Hawke no, or at least some part of him wants to, but he can see the defeated anger hidden deep in the lines of his face, wrinkles like cracks in a mask, and he gestures him to a table in the back.

Hawke sits with a heavy sigh, deflating, and he anxiously runs a hand through his hair. "How bad is it?" he manages after a moment. "In the Gallows... or," he corrects himself, "in the Circle?"

A torrent of conflict swells in Anders, but he will not stay his tongue, not even now. "Terrible," he says. "Oppressive. Lonely. Dangerous."

"Embittering," Hawke adds, and Anders' frown deepens.

"Full of templars who react at the slightest misplaced suspicion. Especially here in Kirkwall."

Hawke nods silently, straining to hold something back, probably biting words, maybe a breakdown, but Anders isn't sure and either way he doesn't want to exacerbate it. With great difficulty, he relents.

"Bethany's a smart girl, Hawke. She'll keep her head down and... _comply_," he spits. "I can't promise no harm will come to her, but she's got a decent chance at least."

He's thought about using the Underground to free, maybe even recruit Bethany. She could do so much good, and she _wanted_ to help. But springing an un-Harrowed mage, so newly imprisoned and already a foreigner of _dangerous_ influence... Meredith would destroy what's left of Hawke's family, Hawke himself. As much as Bethany doesn't want to be locked up, he suspects she wants that even less.

Hawke opens his mouth to speak, shuts it, opens it again, and his voice is detached. "I should have - "

"No." Anders cuts that path of thought off immediately. "It's not your fault, it's the templars', and it's always been the templars'."

Andraste's tits, he'd already lost another sibling, hadn't he? A year ago, Bethany's twin brother. The fury over Bethany, over all mages, subsides, and there's nothing Anders can do now but reach across the table and squeeze Hawke's gloved hand.

Hawke's eyes close as he brushes his thumb over Anders' palm, and time sort of slows down for a second, but then Hawke pulls free to stand, that roguish smile back on his face. "I should get moving. Varric's trying to cheat me out of a _marvelous_ set of bangles."

"You can talk to me," Anders says.

"He's been bloody slippery about this whole thing," Hawke says, and with a little salute but not another word, he leaves.

Anders doesn't watch him go.

* * *

><p>The stairs to Hightown feel absolutely <em>endless<em> when Garrett's drunk. Which he is. Frequently and _currently_.

He's stumbling up to the Amell - no, the _Hawke_ mansion, that's still so bloody hard to get used to, one arm dangling around Isabela and the other around Anders as they help him along the stone steps. His hand lingers tantalizingly at the curve of Isabela's breast.

"Oh, _serah_," she purrs. "Is that how we're playing tonight?"

He grins at Isabela, who by all accounts should be equally tossed but somehow _isn't_, which is a good bit of bullshit. The world seems like colors, sort of spinning all over the place, but at least Garrett can see the both of them clearly. "Sometimes I think," he slurs a bit, "I think, it's like I attracted all the attractive friends in the world."

She laughs, and the sound is gorgeous as always. "Between me and Sparkly over there, you might be right. All we need now is a surly elf and we'll have the whole set."

Anders laughs, but even to Garrett's fuzzy mind it seems subdued. "If I'm involved," he says, "you might have a rough go of it convincing Fenris."

"He's not invited anyway," Garrett scoffs, and he's far too gone with whiskey-dick, or whatever swill the Hanged Man serves-dick at any rate, to do anything more than slide his hands down both their chests in response, though with Anders it's mostly pauldrons. Some part of his mind knows he's acting asinine, or maybe just an ass, but it's a part of his mind he's used to ignoring.

When Isabela's hand squeezes his arse, he nearly loses his footing. "Quit trying to tempt me," Isabela cackles, "You're already helpless as a kitten, and where's the fun in that?"

Garrett almost misses how Anders' mouth tightens so slightly. Almost.

"You know," Anders says, and his face is just _ripe_ with irritation, "I'm _still_ not sure why I'm here."

"You're _protecting_ me," Garrett says with a sloppy grin, swaying a bit as they reach the top of a set of steps, which is good, because his legs are beginning to burn.

"I'd say Isabela can do a fine job of distracting any wayward bandits."

Garrett stops dead, throwing everyone off-balance, and reaches over to brush his fingertips over Anders' cheek. "No, _no no_, you've got to protect me from _her_. From Isabela. That's the point." When Anders doesn't shy away from his hand, Garrett winks and turns to Isabela. "I know you, you _pirate_, you'll rob me blind."

She runs her tongue along her teeth. "Well, I'll do _something_ that'll leave you blind, sweet thing."

Anders sighs with a frown. "Is this going to happen _every_ time you get a letter from Bethany?"

That's a low blow, and judging by the immediate regret on his face, Anders knows it. The world suddenly seems darker, but it's probably just his mood. He toys his fingers through the golden hairs at the base of Anders' neck, watching with a bit of mean joy as Anders tries not to squirm and make himself even more bloody obvious by staring decisively at the wall.

It takes Anders a second, but he finally pulls away, dejected. "I'm sorry," he says softly, but leaves it at that. The moon hangs at... _sweet Maker_, almost pre-dawn, it's far too late and Garrett doesn't currently possess the cognitive capacity for self-reflection, but if Anders is done being a brat, so is he.

Garrett rubs at his nose, swallowing down a wave of sharp nausea. "I..." he fishes, but Anders knows him too well for any bullshitting, and he's _so_ drunk right now, but at the very least he can save face with Isabela and by extension everyone else they know, so Garrett waves her away. She looks put out, but she's a big girl, and she can deal with it.

"I'm being a blithering idiot," Garrett says finally. "I don't know why - or, well, I know _why_ - but I don't know why I'm taking it out on _you_ specifically." He sort of collapses against the carved wall of the steps, gazing up at the stars and vaguely trying to map them in his head. "It's just - it's been _six bloody months_, and this is the first letter they've let her send, and I see them, the templars, in my mind when I think about her, like hovering nannies watching her write." He's babbling, and he takes a deep breath. "I can see why Father never liked the skirted bastards."

That's unfortunately a sentence more than he meant to share about himself.

But Anders looks so annoyingly sincere, like he sees right through his every word, Garrett's every vulnerability. He nods, and this time it's his hand on Garrett's shoulder. "I understand," he says, and even in his mental fog Garrett knows he does.

They ascend the rest of the stairs in silence, and the next day, when Garrett's finished fighting a raging hangover, his heart's not as heavy as he expected when he tells Isabela he isn't interested.

* * *

><p>Anders wakes suddenly in the night, eyes creaking open, though it's so dark he might not have even bothered. The air is stifling, uncomfortably warm, and his ears ring in the dead silence of the clinic's stone walls; Darktown at night sometimes feels like a coffin, unfortunately apropos.<p>

The cot in his clinic's supply room offers limited comfort, but in the isolated black and quiet, the scrape of rough burlap against his skin is the only anchor Anders has to the physical world.

He massages an achy temple covered in a thin sheen of sweat - shit, but this had been a bad one. Two bloody years he's been a Warden now, not in _practice_, of course, but the nightmares aren't getting any better. At this rate, he doesn't know what will drive him mad first, his life in sleep or wake. At least the buggers in his dreams are finally being driven off the surface, and most importantly, _he's not the one who has to do it_.

With a grumpy groan, he turns over. It's rare Anders can snag a full night of sleep, and after a solid week of nearly-all-nighters with the Underground, he's fighting fatigue as much as nasty beasties. There's an ever-present nagging in his head, no wearier for his own wear, that he should be out there tonight, too, and he _wants_ to, but when it became clear that all the magic Anders could manage without shaking were weak wisps of smoke from even weaker sparks, his contacts sent him home.

He's still exhausted and needs at least another few hours, but now he can only hear his own breath in the dead quiet, and he's sweated down his back and through cotton, and _Maker take this heat_.

He tugs his thin undershirt over his head with as little movement as possible and flings it onto what he hopes is a dry shelf, and the feel of the air and scritchy cot on his bare skin stirs something he really doesn't want to deal with right now.

Later, when he manages to fall back into tentative sleep, Anders can't say he's surprised that he dreams of strong arms and a cheeky smile instead of darkspawn and Deep Roads.

He's not sure which he'd prefer.

* * *

><p>It takes all of Anders' effort to control himself when they're in the Gallows. He knows the templars are watching his every move, and even with his staff left inconspicuously in his clinic or Varric's suite, it only takes one mistake for them to descend like <em>dogs<em>. He knows just as well that with only a whiff of effort, he could destroy them _all_ and spring every imprisoned, oppressed mage in this horrible place free. They hate everything he is, everything he represents, and the feeling is so very mutual.

_Garrett_ knows this because Anders finally tells him so, in hushed, fraught tones, sitting next to him on the ferry back.

"Why do you tell me these things?" He manages to sound weightless, laughing, but if they weren't on a tiny boat he would have staggered under Anders' quiet voice, fallen right off and sunk to the bottom of the sea, an aural anvil chained to his ankle, dragging him down down _down_.

Aveline, across the boat, scowls. "Yes, why _do_ you tell us these things? Have you not realized I'm Guard-Captain now?"

In the scowling department, Anders can give as good as he gets. "The way you go on about it in every conversation, it's rather hard to miss."

"Well, I don't think you're exactly one to talk." She crosses her arms over her heavy armor.

Their snotting at each other pulls Garrett back from the precipice. "Keep an open mind, Aveline!" he grins. "Who doesn't love a good templar massacre in the morning? It can't be any worse than what passes for breakfast in the Free Marches." He's not even making fun; Garrett hasn't had a decent sausage in almost two years.

"It's not a joke, Hawke," Aveline says sternly, though she loosens a bit, staring out at the surf as it crashes against weeping statues.

A salty, too-cool wind rushes the cove, and Garrett bumps his shoulder against Anders'. "I guess I can always leave you in the sewers next time, if that's what you _really_ want."

"Careful, people might start to think you're a _feeler_." Anders' smile is tight, but at least it's there.

Something catches in Garrett's stomach; he's not about to fall into that trap. "Not everything's about you, you know. If you get all... _blue and glowy_, can you _imagine_ the kind of trouble I'd be in?"

"At least they won't make you Tranquil," Anders says, a dark look passing over his face, and he's clearly not in the mood for much banter.

"I don't know," Garrett says lightly, "if I had you at my whim, that wouldn't be _my_ first choice." That's a terrible flirting segue, the Tranquil are horrifying, and _Maker_, he really is a wretch.

Anders turns a bit pink, emphatically not looking at him, but Garrett can see from the strain on his face that he's trying not to smile again.

* * *

><p>Autumn passes quickly that year, and winter is colder than it has any right to be. It's forced Anders to master of the art of setting safe fires in his clinic to keep the cold of the Darktown stone at bay.<p>

Maybe that explains why Hawke traipsed down here just after sunset on solstice, knocking though the lanterns aren't lit because Anders is _exhausted_ from healing frostbite and wagon overturns all day.

They're sitting by the small fire now, side-by-side, soaking up its meager warmth while Anders' eyes sting with the effort of keeping them open.

"I just..." he says, "I don't quite understand why you have to come to _Darktown_ to avoid a party."

Hawke unsheathes one of his daggers, twirling it on its point in the dirt. To anyone else, he might just look bored. "It's all about appearances up there. I told 'em I'd be out, so now if I don't busy myself, Mother will never let me hear the end of it."

If Anders times it just right, maybe Hawke won't catch him rolling his eyes. Hawke hasn't been down to this festering hole in a few months, preferring to just send the occasional letter when he wants help, so maybe this is just the start of one of his spells, where the man vacillates toward being a _real person_ in a _real place_ instead of his usual incredibly frustrating self.

Anders leaves it alone. He likes the visits.

"Why exactly do you want to avoid them in the first place?"

Hawke shrugs. "I don't think the nobility likes me very much."

"Can't imagine why, you're so _tactful_. And _new money_, to boot," Anders says, the disdain practically dripping from his teeth.

"That," Hawke agrees. "Also, disgraced family of magic, Ferelden trash, smells of dogs."

Anders smiles at Hawke with fondness, and the warmth in his chest can't be just from the fire. "Such problems."

"The _worst_." He pauses, stares off in thought for a second, then regards Anders with renewed interest. "So, care for a trip out to the Injured Cliffs tomorrow? I know I said I don't do anything with children, but if someone's _lost_ theirs, I _suppose_ I can allow an exception."

"You'll never stop being a mercenary, will you?" They both know that half of these little missions Hawke takes never pay in anything but goodwill, but Anders just smiles, not willing to shatter Hawke's delicate self-image as a rugged rogue.

"It's my primary source of income - not all of us can be born merchant-princes, you know." Hawke scratches at his beard. "Will you come, though? The boy might need a healer, and you know I'm rubbish at first aid. I'm as likely to kill the poor bastard as fix him. He'll wind up with a foot for a hand under my watch, and that would make eating _terribly_ unpleasant."

Anders chuckles quietly, head heavy. "Why not? The clinic load has been lighter lately, I can find the time."

While Anders regrets what his friend Justice has become, he's never regretted the decision to join him. But if he was going to, if there was ever one moment in his wretched life when he could wonder what it would be without Justice, it would be right now.

Without a thought, Anders rests his head on Hawke's shoulder. It's got to be the sheer exhaustion that allows him to do it, because it's certainly not Justice.

They sit there in long, comfortable silence, and Anders is starting to nod off when Hawke finally breaks the quiet. "So..." he begins, and Anders remembers himself, sitting up. "So, why do you do this? Practically kill yourself helping the refugees?"

He's silent for a second, thrown by Hawke's willingness to ask a serious question, but when he answers, it's instinctive, and with a truth he knows to his core: "I am one of them, as are you. And Kirkwall's treatment of us, like so many other things, is not just."

Anders blinks, and his next words are more tentative. "It's not any different from what you've done for them, really." It's nearly imperceptible, but Anders doesn't miss how Hawke pulls so slightly away.

* * *

><p>Garrett is more than satisfied with his destruction of the practice dummy when he hears Mother returning to the estate, home from the market with the colorful spring flowers, baubles and whatnot that she uses to brighten up the place.<p>

Maker knows it needs it; even with the recent addition of Bodahn and Sandal, it's so oppressively _lonely_ here sometimes. Though, really, Sandal isn't helping the case. Between the weird dwarf and Garrett's own boredom-borne people peeping, the Hawke estate must be the creepiest in Hightown.

It's not like it's _his_ fault the Tevinters built everyone in so close.

The adrenaline of exercise wears off midway to the bath, and Garrett can't pull his grimy trousers off fast enough.

He stays in for dinner that night, too tired and in too decent a mood to go out looking for adventure or escape, a fact that apparently hasn't passed by Mother unnoticed.

"You're not preoccupied tonight," she remarks after a delicate bite of vegetable.

"I've got to give my body a break from drinking and whoring sometime."

"Oh, you're awful," she says, and then she stares at him with that exasperated, faintly disappointed stare that Garrett can't help but flinch away from even though he's a full twenty-four and owns a bloody mansion.

"_Mother_," he insists.

"_Garrett_," she insists back. "Dear, are you alright?"

"Why, do I look pale? I had the sweats earlier, but I think that was all the running and stabbing." He's not going to get away from this, though. His mother is his sister, vigilant and _persistent_. Garrett's food is so much less appetizing when he's under scrutiny.

She shakes her head at him. "You seem different lately. I try not to pry into your life because it scares the grace out of me, but dear - "

"Mother," he stops her. "I'm _fine_. More than fine. I don't _love_ Kirkwall, though I think you'd have to be a cloistered Chantryman or a right prat to actually love it here..." he babbles, catches himself, "but the point is, I'm living well, a damn sight better than any other refugees, and Bethany is doing as well as she can in the blighted Gallows, and _you're_ happy, at least I think you're happy, and - "

Still babbling. "I'm fine," he repeats. "We could be doing a lot worse."

"And this is why I worry. You haven't been this honest with me since you were a child." She smirks. "Which is ironic, because if I didn't know any better, I'd say you're growing up."

He knows it, too. He knows it, and he has _no sodding idea_ what to think of it.

"Oh, don't say that, don't ruin such a lovely dinner. Bodahn worked so _hard_," Garrett says, because he's got to stay true to himself, or at least his words, as apparently the rest of him is sliding out of control into some dark cavern of seriousness and intensity and other such daunting adult things.

Maybe this is a step forward, maybe this is okay. Maybe _all_ of this is okay.

When Garrett gazes out the window tonight, he's just looking at the stars.

* * *

><p>Lowtown is lit by only lanterns and moonlight, yet the street is oddly crowded. Their eyes follow his group across the hex, but by the time they've oh-so-shadily drawn their weapons to ambush, Garrett's dagger is whistling through the air, burying itself in the chest of a thug. This isn't his first dance.<p>

Aveline charges with a yell, drawing their horrified attention while Garrett rips his dagger from the dead man and pounces on his next target. A thug rushes him before he bursts into flame, screaming in pain, and Anders' magic really is quite scary, isn't it?

His adrenaline's pumping as their bodycount stacks, muscles screaming as his blades tear through flesh. Blood splatters the streets, his armor, the air itself, and he grins wider.

Garrett hears the archer's string from behind, where _no one_ is standing or fighting, which _can't_ be good -

And then the arrow tears through his throat, nearly severs his head from his damn shoulders. He's down before he can even think to panic, thoughts hazy and blood spurting and squishing underneath his armor, and he can't breathe. His eyes are wide but he can't see.

Through the pain, quickly fading, and his own gurgling he hears it, like someone's physically wrenched the cry straight from his lungs: "Hawke, _no!_"

His skin feels cool, then featherlight, and for a brief moment Garrett knows he's _dying_ - but then color returns to the world. Suddenly he recognizes that calming cool as Anders' magic, and his feet gently touch the ground. Sensation floods his mind, and with it, pain. He's too weak to stay upright, knees threatening to buckle, but Anders has already rushed to his side, and Garrett is all too happy to plant his face in feathers.

Blue light surrounds him again when Anders places a hand on his back, and that pervasive, overwhelming weakness feels like it's being pulled from his body. He feels spent, like he's just had mindblowing sex. Fingers still hooked in Anders' coat for support, Garrett chances a glance around - Aveline's long killed everything in sight - and tries hard not to think about the skinny frame he feels under that coat, trembling a bit with what _has_ to be concern, because some musty, ill-used part of his mind tells him that would be just _so_ inappropriate.

Garrett's neck still stings like bloody vengeance, which is funny because he's probably _drenched_ in blood, but he's not going to complain in the face of near-death. Yet.

The arrow's broken in two in a pile at their feet.

He stares at Anders, so close he can see the wrinkles at his concerned eyes. He smells like Darktown, with an undercurrent of something much, _much_ better.

"...Garrett," Garrett says.

The concern just turns to confusion. "What?"

He laughs. "You don't _really_ have to call me 'Hawke', you know. Unless there's some family name mandate in Kirkwall or Hightown I don't know about, Maker knows it wouldn't be the first."

"I don't think knowing you're not supposed to get _completely pissed_ at the seneschal's dinners counts as a mandate."

* * *

><p>The dreams - both sorts - are getting more ridiculous.<p>

Darkspawn loot through improbably large tunnels like they always do, with increasing frequency, but now they've retreated far enough to bring the blighted broodmothers back into the mix. More than once, Anders has woken up wanting to retch.

More troubling are the dreams he _likes_.

Garrett's managed to infiltrate what should be Fade and Warden space at least once a week, and while Anders has never been a big one for shame, it's really quite pathetic. And ridiculous. Always ridiculous. He has no time to be dreaming about Hightown mercenaries.

_That_, he knows, for once, is indisputably Justice. Garrett is charming, funny, _kind_, when he thinks no one's looking, but Anders is always looking, and he gives _almost_ as much of a toss about the mages' plight as Anders does. He's dashing, which is a ridiculous word to use, but these feelings are all ridiculous, especially from someone nearly thirty bloody years old.

Maybe Justice is right, maybe those sharp shoulders that go on forever are a distraction, but it's gone deeply beyond that now, and Anders doesn't want to live in a world where... _feelings_... for someone as ridiculous as Garrett are mutually exclusive to his life's work.

When his fingers brush against the laces of his trousers, and he rather _aches_ to run them through shaggy black hair, Anders feels that familiar reluctance, not the shame of indulgence, but something more decisive, more assertive. For the first time, he ignores it.

Shit, he's stepped in it now.

* * *

><p>It was supposed to be a routine rescue, inasmuch as breaking into the Gallows to rescue mages could be considered <em>routine<em>. But their two charges and their chattering mouths had turned into four, which was more than they'd ever attempted in one go; damned if Anders was going to leave bright-eyed, freedom-hungry mages to the mercy of their captors any longer. One of them, a blond boy in his mid teens who couldn't bear to leave without his girlfriend, reminds Anders of himself like a punch to the chest.

The Gallows are dark so late at night, well past curfew, almost completely silent save for their hushed whispering.

"Look," Jarad says, "we don't have enough disguises, and I don't know if we can protect four _un-Harrowed_ through the tunnels." He fumbles with his knife, anxious. "The smugglers..." Jarad's a decent man, a sympathizer, non-mage, which against templars makes him indispensable in battle, but he doesn't _understand_.

Sometimes it's hard to imagine anyone else can.

Matthias, an apostate, growls. "So what, you'd rather leave them here, with knowledge of _who we are_ - "

Anders shakes his head. "No. We're not leaving anyone, and we need to move _now_."

They both nod with something of a reverence, which Anders normally eschews but tonight thinks must be grace. Being both a Grey Warden and possessed of a physically-manifesting bad side still carries weight, then.

Jarad motions the refugees over, whispering instructions while Matthias returns his attention to the phylactery vault door. He's not yet met an enchantment he can't handle, but they take longer to break each time, and every second spent in the Gallows basement decidedly _not_ fleeing sets Anders' nerves even more on edge.

A templar crumpled in a chair stirs, and with a wisp of concentration Anders puts her back to sleep. It's better than she deserves.

Too many minutes later, they've broken through the safeguards, and Matthias lights a torch to pick through the tiny phials. Anders wants to destroy them all, let the blood wash the prison walls clean, but it's a delicate scale Meredith and the First Enchanter balance, one they don't have the manpower to afford tipping.

Footsteps echoing in the distance tear Anders from his thoughts; someone - no, _several_ someones, are coming down the stairs. Shit.

Jarad frantically motions from the chamber entrance where he's standing guard.

"What do we do?" one of the girls whispers, panicked.

_Keep quiet_, Matthias mouths back, gathering and replacing the phylacteries they've managed to locate as Anders ushers them all out.

The blond boy doesn't follow them, still desperately searching the calligraphic labels on the phials. "I can't find mine!" he says. Anders and Matthias exchange a glance, _The templars_ cannot _find the tunnels_, and Matthias tosses Anders the torch before he goes; Anders is _not_ leaving this boy behind, and escaping with the phylactery still intact is tantamount to delivering him to the templars with a pretty bow on his head.

Microseconds tick by as Anders and the boy scan the names, finally finding the right one and shoving it into his pockets, but the basement door is creaking open, no time to replace it with the decoy, and suddenly Anders realizes he can't extinguish the flame with magic.

_Shit!_

He stuffs the torch under his robes to put it out, and the the memory of the lit room is enough to grab the boy and in the dark guide him out of the phylactery chamber. The tunnel entrance is close, but it's right in view of the door, and they'll never make it in time.

Anders drags the boy to an alcove, surrounded by storage crates, pulling them both as tight against the wall as he can. Dim firelight bounces off the walls of the large basement, they're barely hidden, and it's deathly quiet. He clamps one hand over the boy's face and the other over his own, muffling every panicked breath they take. Sweet Andraste, he hopes the others have gotten out.

There's scuffling, a groan, and then a scaly voice fills the room, cutting through the silence. "Wake up, you lump. You were supposed to report five minutes ago."

"Ser Alrik!" the templar in the chair apologizes, "Maker forgive me, I just..." she fumbles, "I suppose I've been tired lately."

They're silent for a moment, but someone is moving, and Anders thinks he can hear the clatter of the templar's dropped torch, then the superior, Alrik, that name ominously familiar, says, "Search the room."

The bottom falls out of Anders' stomach.

"Come out, magey," Alrik slimes, his voice closer, and Anders squints his eyes shut as a tremble of fear wracks his body. He hears the low groan of the vault door, so they must have noticed it was ajar. "_Naughty_," Alrik says. "Do you know what Chantry law dictates for mages who tamper with phylacteries?" He leaves the question dangling in the air, but his ever-nearer drawl is far more terrifying.

Every breath Anders takes beneath his hand is slow and calculated, but it doesn't matter because Alrik _is_ going to hear the pounding in his chest, he's sure of it. Distantly, he feels the boy shuddering against him, and his grip around him tightens, a warning.

Anders reaches for his magic, but it's still cut off, like he's lost an arm. Alrik must be going through lyrium like bloody smalls to keep the wards up this long, but he has to eventually give up, he _has to_, but _not fast enough_.

And then they hear it, a feminine shriek. "Ser Alrik, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm _sorry_!" she cries, and Anders realizes with horror that it's the boy's girlfriend.

She must have torn away from the group, come back for her lover.

The boy tries to jerk away, but Anders digs his nails into his cheek, clamping down harder as he presses his lips to the boy's ear and whispers, so soft it's almost inaudible, _Don't move, you cannot move, you cannot be caught, you _cannot_ be caught..._ and it's a mantra, distracting the boy whose wet tears he can feel on his hand.

This, Anders thinks, is why love can't exist in the Circle. Or why the _Circle_ can't exist.

"Annelise," Alrik says amidst the sounds of struggle, and his tone makes Anders' skin crawl. "What a shame, someone like you using _blood magic_ to open the doors. We'll have to draw lots for _your_ ritual."

Justice, or at least Anders' desire for it, is _screaming_, and the boy is the only thing keeping him tethered to the world. They're far outnumbered and even with his unbridled power they'll all be killed or worse if he loses control.

"_Please, Ser_ - " she begs, desperately, but they're already dragging her off.

The door slams, leaving them in dark and silence, and Anders can feel the boy collapsing in his grip but he's already pulling them both to the tunnel trapdoor.

Later, when the sun peeks over the horizon, and the city begins to stir, and he finally wrestles his fury and still-hammering heart to calm, Anders realizes he doesn't want to do this alone anymore.

He _can't_.

* * *

><p>When Anders tells him it's getting worse, that the templars are sniffing their lyrium-caked noses too close, it's all instinct to promise he'll protect him and every hair on his pretty head.<p>

But he's incensed, speaking to Garrett with renewed passion. To Anders, it goes beyond his own safety; his conviction extends to Darktown, to the Gallows, to Meredith, Kirkwall, all of Thedas.

And, Garrett knows, to Garrett himself.

Anders meets his eyes, and for all his evasion Garrett couldn't look away if someone ripped his eyes from their sockets. He would drown them both in blood to keep him safe, he says, and Garrett can feel the air sizzle with Anders' raw energy, magic and something _else_, something _older_, and it's all directed at _him_. This dedication, this devotion - he's never felt anything like it before, but it's exciting, and Garrett likes blood, or at least the fighting that draws it, so that's fine too.

Justice lingers beneath the surface, like Garrett suspects he always does, and if he's totally honest with himself the spirit still mildly scares the shit out of him. Unless he's glowing, which does no favors for Anders' otherwise _charming_ face, there's no way of telling where Anders ends and Justice begins, or if they're even really separate at all. Because the winsome humor and the indomitable, sometimes terrifying zeal - they're all part of Anders, and they're all part of this... _thing_ Garrett's been trying so hard not to acknowledge for so many years.

Anders tells him Kirkwall needs to see someone taking a bloody stand for mages, help build a world predicated on freedom and choice, and that someone is him. It's a rush, hearing this potential, a solid thrill, and what's worse is that he _wants_ to help build that world, and years ago that might have had him shaking in his boots, but time and suddenly-elevated status have him actually thinking. He's no longer just Hawke the Helper or Garrett the Giver; he's got a sense of real _purpose_ around Anders.

And, about half the time, the threat of half-chub.

This wasn't what the old witch dragon lady, asha'bellanar, meant, it couldn't be, but Garrett has never felt so close to the edge.

* * *

><p>It's been a few days since they talked, and this time the templars are <em>actually<em> on Anders' doorstep, or will be, tonight. It takes far too much effort to quell his rage as they preemptively clear out anything incriminating, anything _magical_ from his _magical flaming clinic_, leaving enough medical supplies to not look suspicious. When Jarad suggests he go topside for the night, he's got no room to disagree.

The Hanged Man is as good a place as any to get lost for a night, in just _so_ many ways, but only one of which Anders will be partaking, _thank you_. He slips under the giant swinging stuffed-man-doll-thing and through the door, glancing around the fairly full tavern, eyes adjusting to the sudden dark. Varric is across the room, deep in conversation with a pair of shadow-enshrouded breasts Anders can only assume is Isabela.

Next to him, in the light, is a shock of shaggy black hair.

Varric sees him first, ever omniscient. "Blondie!" he calls, gesturing Anders over, and Anders can't help but follow. Garrett turns to meet his eyes - the look he gives him is positively _glowing_, and Anders slides into a seat a little less wearily.

He practically melts into the table, haphazardly cradling his head in his arms with a groan, and trying not to tense when he feels Garrett rub comfortingly at his back. The brief respite of self-pity passes, and he peeks out at Garrett through his arms. "So what brings you back into the dirt?" he asks, sitting back up with a sigh.

Garrett's eyes are warm, matching his grin, and he says jauntily, "I like to think I never left it."

Isabela smirks at Anders, looking fully-recovered and fully-unashamed from her last 'visit'. "Bit more surprising to see _you_ topside on your lonesome."

Varric rests his chin on his hands, leaning forward like his is the most fascinating story in the room. "She's got a point," he says. "I think dwarves of Orzammar see more sun than you."

Anders wants to quip about how much he missed the magnificent scent of vomit-caked air, but anger overwhelms his jokes and he's got a tension headache again. He rubs at the bridge of his nose.

"The templars are doing a raid in the area tonight. Looking for anything _untoward_ about a blighted free clinic for refugees," he says bitterly. "I needed to get out of Darktown for the night." He forces the so very righteous anger crashing at his temples back down and attempts a half-smile. "What better place to be a fugitive than the Hanged Man?"

Varric's cracking jokes, of course he is, but Anders isn't really listening, he's too busy drowning out the sounds of the bar with his own misery, which is at least a toss better than with whiskey.

Garrett's hand on his arm brings him back down to reality. "So are you actually serious?" he says. "You've got friends, you know, or at least me, and I've got a _house_. A rather nice one."

"Garrett - "

"Oh, first-name basis with Hawke," Isabela tuts, "how _saucy_."

Anders shrugs at her, a mildly self-satisfied smirk playing at his mouth, and Garrett just rolls his eyes. There's a troupe playing tonight, and Garrett is subconsciously rapping his knuckles against the table on the offbeat, which couldn't be more fitting. "Maker, Anders," he says, exasperated, "just stay the night, if it means you're safe."

"I'm not going to impose on you," Anders says, because it's the first excuse he can come up with, and consequently by far the worst.

"Have you _seen_ my house? Space isn't exactly an issue. We'll set up a guest room. It's got to be a good sight better than rat mattresses. If you're going to escape the sewers for a night, you might as well do it full-stop."

Varric scoffs, tossing back the last of what's left in his tankard. "That hurts me, Hawke," he says, "I've made good friends with the local vermin. I'll have you know they're excellent bedfellows."

"And we wouldn't want to make you jealous by stealing away all their attention." Garrett's hand is still on his arm, a comforting weight. He's has been so _handsy_ lately, sneaking him glances of such affection, and this is a terrible idea.

Anders is going to do it anyway.

"Fine," he concedes with a sigh far more reluctant than he actually feels. "I suppose I can abuse your hospitality."

Garrett laughs, probably restraining himself for once from some glorious remark, which makes Anders ache in a way that is not at all conducive to focus but unfortunately all too familiar. He watches too raptly as Garrett finishes off his drink, always determined to get his money's worth, and stands with only the slightest sway. Garrett's hand on his arm doesn't falter, guiding Anders up with him, and then he slides his grip up Anders' shoulder.

It's all he can do to keep the heat from his face.

"So," Garrett announces, "since I'm no longer drinking myself into oblivion tonight, and I'm not in the mood to get mauled on the streets, we should be getting back."

Their companions are both sort of staring, and if Anders weren't suddenly so hyperaware of everyone at the table, he wouldn't have noticed the gleam in Varric's eye as he shoots a strange look at Garrett.

"Well," Varric says slowly, and his voice has a tone to it Anders can't quite identify, but then he's grinning again and the moment has passed. "Don't forget to tell me all the sordid details later, Hawke."

Isabela's grin is practically predatory. "Have a good evening," she says, but it's not at all cordial, and Anders knows he's trodden in a pile of deep mabari shit. He can't leave the bar too quickly.

The walk back to Hightown is pleasant enough as they blather about cynical Kirkwall politics and the pros and cons (_mostly cons_) of hound ownership, or rather why Garrett is ridiculous for owning one when there are so many good cats in the world. It's a late summer night, and the sun has just set behind the mountains, but the world is still violet and hazy and soft. A couple of times Garrett's hand brushes his, and Anders isn't sure if it's accidental, but all the same it takes every bit of self-restraint he's ever built up over the years to keep from lacing their fingers together, because Anders _cannot_, and surely Garrett does not want to, or at least he wouldn't when of sound mind. Which he clearly is not.

Three years, and it's physically painful.

But, Anders is quick to remind himself once they're safely through Hightown and in the Hawke estate foyer, not as painful as the Templar's brand, the Templar's hand.

"Do you want anything to eat?" Garrett interrupts his thoughts, looking thoroughly tired, probably sobering up, but not at all unhappy. "We have, er, food. Which you seem to be generally lacking, _no offense_."

Anders snorts, because Garrett isn't at all wrong. "When you put it like that, how could I possibly turn you down?"

"How in-_deed_," Garrett says, but they're interrupted by Bodahn and Bodahn's odd vacuous son person.

"'Allo..." Sandal says in his typical vaguely confused drawl. It's not the first time Anders has met someone of _deficiency_, but never a _dwarf_ capable of flash-freezing an _ogre_. A week in the Deep Roads with the man - child? - left Anders all kinds of intrigued, but the kind of intrigue one held from a very, very safe distance.

Bodahn shoos Sandal back to his quarters for the night, which is just fine.

"Your mother's already retired for the evening, I'm afraid." he says, always polite, "She was out all day, I'm sure she was quite tired, the poor dear." He pauses from his worrying to regard them both. "I haven't cleared the kitchen yet, if you're wanting a late supper."

"I appreciate it, Bodahn," Garrett says. "Anders will be staying with us tonight, if could you ready a guest room."

His beard shifts with his ever-present bright smile. "Certainly," he says, "And may I say how lovely it is to have overnight guests for once." _Uninebriated ones_, Anders is sure he means, because Isabela has a terrible habit of making herself at home here, a fact that in the past caused Anders no small amount of the most petty irritations.

Bodahn leaves, and the full awkwardness of quiet finally gets its chance to settle in. They're alone now, or they might as well be.

"Right," Garrett says, thank the Maker, "would you rather pillow fight first or braid each other's hair?"

"Hm, I don't think I'd look exactly dashing with a braid. Or passed out on your floor, because I've gone and fainted from hunger."

The warmth in Garrett's eyes as he nods them in the direction of the kitchen makes the summer heat almost unbearable.

Bodahn said he hadn't cleared the kitchen, but it's in such neat order that it almost seems a waste to trash it up. Anders' suddenly grumbling stomach takes issue with that line of thought, though, quieting only when he shoves a piece of proffered bread down his throat. They're content to eat lightly, chopping pieces of the kinds of fresh luxury fruits Anders has never seen outside of the hands of dainty Ferelden nobles, and Garrett is Fereldan to his pointy beard, and sort of a noble. Maybe not dainty, but he does have his moments.

Garrett tosses him a bit of squash he's sliced off, and this is all leaving Anders feeling inordinately _better_.

Somehow, amidst the stone of Hightown, crickets chirp faintly outside, probably living in someone's well-tended garden, only emerging at night when the well-to-do retreated inside and the fear of being prissed at had properly subsided. It's calming, the night sounds in the distance and the low light of the kitchen lanterns.

"This is all right... right?" Garrett asks. "Munching on halla food, I mean. Instead of a decent supper."

Anders rolls his eyes. "You're so _thoughtful_. Of course it's all right," he says, smiling. Then he yawns so deep it touches his bones.

Garrett scoffs, "So much for Warden stamina, then," but he's in a generous enough mood to shut it down and guide them up the stairs to the bedrooms.

Bodahn has left the appropriate door open and bustled elsewhere, and it's mildly awkward when Anders crosses the threshold into the room, sparsely furnished and illuminated in faint moonlight and none of the warm glow from the fire. He's spent enough time in the Hawke estate for it to feel at the very least comfortable, but sleeping here, in this place where no one sleeps, is unsettling.

Garrett leans against the doorframe, starting at the clasps of his armor. "Fair warning: Sandal has a nasty habit of waking people up in the morning by _staring_. We're trying to break him of it."

"It's better than the alternative," Anders says darkly. His research on templar activity lately has been... alarming, and it extends far beyond tonight's simple raid of his own facilities.

It takes a second - like it always does - to undo the clasps of his coat and let it slide off his shoulders. Garrett is watching him, and because Anders is really the exact _opposite_ of a blushing virgin in every regard, and because Anders left that life behind in pursuit of something _greater_, he closes his eyes and swallows.

He weighs his next words, and decides he can't _not_ ask. "When this has blown over in a couple of days, can we speak privately? In my clinic? I need to talk to you about something."

Garrett leans back against the hall banister. "Of course," he says, and then he can't meet Anders' gaze. "Is this really what you want to talk about right now, though? The evening was so _pleasant_."

That hesitation is like ice cold water; Anders' mind is suddenly clear, and his thoughts are once again focused. He cannot rid himself of his affection for Hawke, but there are far more pressing matters at hand.

Ser Alrik _cannot wait_.

"Thank you for the room tonight," Anders says. "Goodnight, Garrett." He shuts the door.

* * *

><p>Garrett talks him down from the edge. Garrett tells him it's going to be all right. Garrett tells him to be the example Garrett knows he can be.<p>

Anders' doubts are shadows, and his heart is in his throat.

* * *

><p>The smile on Anders' face as he talks about cats lights up what should be the darkest place in Kirkwall, at least according to its name.<p>

It's been four days since Anders placed the freedom of all the Gallows mages - and his own extraordinary trust - in Garrett. It's been three days since Garrett put his hands on Anders' shoulders, Anders, whose fire was turned inward, threatening to burn him from inside out, and comforted him.

"I've been meaning to thank you," Anders says. He's still smiling.

Vengeance is as every bit as terrible as Garrett had suspected, but Vengeance is not Justice, and both are Anders, inextricable. Even after three years, it should be strange to see Anders so grateful, so happy to see Garrett this soon after he'd nearly lost control, nearly killed an innocent girl and done such a dramatic self-flagellation right after. But Anders _can_ control it, or at least Garrett knows he can help Anders control it. The mere thought of Anders losing himself to templars or Vengeance or really any particular force makes Garrett's insides feel shifty and squirmy.

"You don't have to stick your neck out for the mages here, but you have." Anders' eyes are filled with adoration. "One day," he says, more hopeful than surely anyone's ever dared to be, because that's the kind of person Anders is, "we'll fix everything, we'll _change_ it. We'll make a world where your sister can be free."

And, Garrett realizes with clarity like crystal, that's exactly what he wants.

Garrett smiles, and for once in his miserable life it's _genuine_, though he can't help but slide back into a more comfortable grin. "I've always had a thing for scrappy underdogs."

Anders falls silent, chewing at his lip, picking anxiously at a fingernail, and suddenly Garrett feels like he's on fire, and his stomach is tied in tiny knots. Anders speaks again, but all Garrett can feel is the roar in his ears.

"I'm still a _man_," Anders says.

"Don't expect me to resist forever," Anders says.

And it's been three years, three years longer than it should have been. Anders' voice is tinged with desperation that so parallels his own - more than that, it's filled a caring and intensity he can still barely _begin_ to fathom. But Maker, does he want to try.

And so finally, bloody _finally_, Garrett says exactly what's on his mind:

"I don't _want_ you to resist."

* * *

><p><em>an: That's a wrap, then! Beta thanks to Elendraug and Xelias; y'all were bonerrific, thanks again. The title of this fic is the name of a star so massive and bright it began to destroy itself as soon as it was formed._

_eta: Fixed some poopy writing stuff._

_Totes wrote a porny epilogue, check the next 'chapter'._


	2. Eta, Epilogue

Garrett spends the walk back from Dark- to Hightown in a complete daze. Still, it's probably some of the fastest walking he's ever done.

* * *

><p>Anders kisses like himself; deep, yearning, earnest. Also, while he's on the analogy, <em>hot<em>.

Garrett shifts beneath him on the bed, draping his arms languorously around Anders' neck, letting him open up the kiss, slip his tongue past Garrett's lips, his weight pressed comfortably against him.

If he's honest with himself, he's still stubbornly in a state of not quite believing this is actually happening, that Anders is on top of him, willingly, in his own bed, because it hasn't happened in three blighted years, so why start now?

Garrett smiles, lazy, as Anders skims his mouth over his beard, down his throat, all blunt teeth and hot tongue as his hands get more insistent.

Anders sits up suddenly, straddling his thigh, and it's funny because the heat should be gone, and it sort of is, but Garrett still feels just as feverish. Anders fumbles at the clasps of his coat, his hands so much less steady this time, and a few moments seem like an eternity before he finally shrugs the coat off his shoulders and lets it fall to the floor.

"Do you have _any _idea how long I've wanted to do this?" he says, staring down at him. He rakes his eyes over Garrett's body, unashamed, and that's more than alright because Garrett is doing the same.

"Hm," he murmurs, and he lets his hands settle at Anders' hips, "I think we met about... what, three years ago?" Maker's breath, he's slender - all smooth slopes and hipbones.

Anders chuckles. "That's what I like about you, you're so _modest_."

Garrett eyes him. "You talk a lot." Then he tightens his grip and grinds his leg against Anders' cock through his trousers, and Anders, half-hard already, shuts his eyes and _groans_.

That's the final straw. Garrett clambers up, slipping his hands under the thin cotton of Anders' shirt, rocking his leg against him. His skin's soft, not like a warrior's, warm against Garrett's palms. He winds his hands through Anders' clothes, one into his hair and the other tangling in his smalls to grip the curve of his ass.

It's like they're teenagers, Garrett nipping at his throat so he can hear those little noises Anders makes with every rock, his breath hot on his ear. He must have bathed somewhere that wasn't Darktown, because his skin tastes clean, musky, and the thought warms Garrett in a deep place.

Anders presses him back down into the bed, still gripping at his thigh. "_Garrett_," he whispers, a half-moan, before pulling back.

"You talk _a lot_," he repeats, but he smiles breathlessly. Anders gazes down at him, a curious and rather wicked look on his face.

"This isn't your first time, is it? With a man?"

The question takes him by surprise. The proper answer is a resounding _not even close, sweetheart_ but that might be a bit of a mood-killer, and he'd worked so hard at the fireplace. He _thinks_, and it takes him back to places, places that unfortunately aren't here but probably ultimately led him here, and then he _laughs_.

"Good," Anders says, understanding, and he believes him, because his expression is a strange but congruous mix of sincere and breathtakingly predatory. "But have you ever been with a _mage_?"

Whatever intent is on Anders' face, Garrett most definitely wants to be the focus of it. "I'll bite," he says, "what could I possibly be missing out on?"

Anders leans forward, rolling his hips over Garrett's for good measure, and hovers inches over him, silent except for that look of excitement and affection and _hunger_, which, really, speaks volumes itself, and suddenly the anticipation is bursting from his chest.

Then Anders kisses him, but this time it's different - there's a tingling at their lips, arcane and _warm_, and when he pushes the kiss deeper Garrett can't keep his gasp back, because the tingling is on his tongue, running along his teeth, into the back of his throat.

_Ah,_ he realizes.

Anders slips his hands from his hair and slides them under his shirt, riding it up, and the sudden warmth of his skin and his tingling hands on him make Garrett's dick twitch between them. Garrett grinds up against him, tangling their legs together as he clutches at him, and when Anders groans, the electricity pulses.

That day on the Coast, when Isabela and Anders had realized they knew each other, and then when they realized they _knew_ each other, Garrett had been equal measures skeptical and flabbergasted. Anders, it turned out, had quite the sordid past, and Garrett wasn't quite ready to wrap his mind around that, though he was always more than willing to wrap his legs around it.

But now he understands, or he's beginning to, and it takes all his bloody power to not just rub himself against Anders like a cat in heat, though Anders might appreciate the analogy. "_Maker_," Garrett breathes, "_why_ are we still wearing clothes?"

Anders laughs, and he answers by tugging Garrett's shirt over his head and flinging it off the bed; his own is so loose he practically falls out of it. In the three years they've known each other, this is the first time he's seen Anders without all his meddlesome robes and pauldrons and chastity belts. He's flushed, with fine, dark blond hair dusting his chest, and all that _skin _there, his to touch, to taste, and as much as that sounds like one of those brilliant Orlesian novels, right now all he really wants out of life is to put his mouth all over Anders.

And Anders, Maker bless him, has the same idea, hungrily and maybe a little desperately biting at his collarbone, down his chest, over a sensitive nipple as Garrett clutches at him. His hands are still electric, and he's sliding them over Garrett's skin in reverence, leaving trails of tingling hairs on end.

There's a small tug at his waist as Anders unlaces his trousers, and Garrett slips his fingers into Anders' hair and pulls him up for the shallowest of kisses, distracting from that brief moment of blind, brilliant anticipation as Anders slips his hand down, over tan skin and coarse black hair - then he curls his fingers around Garrett's cock and they both groan.

"Is that what you want, then?" Garrett murmurs through his grin, and Anders smiles, deceptively sweet because there's that deviousness lingering still behind his eyes.

"_You're_ what I want," he says, stroking at his cock gently, no trepidation, enough to coax his erection along, like a prologue of everything he has to offer.

"Oh, well, _lucky you_." Garrett rolls his hips into the touch and fumbles at Anders' trousers, eager to touch back, but he bats him away.

"Let me," he whispers, breathless. "I want to do _everything _to you."

What little blood's left in the rest of Garrett's body rushes to his head. "Who's to say that feeling's not mutual?" he says, but his bravado's dampened a bit by the _heavy heaving_. The look on Anders' face could light up the Deep Roads - _all of it_, and he kisses Garrett again, soft and full of adoration, before sliding off the bed and between Garrett's legs.

"Let's shimmy these off," he says, so with a flush of excitement Garrett lifts his hips as Anders helps him out of trou. For all his confidence he's been practically a priest for almost a year, not quite, but bloody close, and being completely naked before someone so _important_ rightfully has his stomach starting at knots out of habit - but it's a _good_ kind of knots, and one look at Anders' face as his eyes darken with lust sends the last remnants of hesitation running.

He moves to sit, but Anders smirks up at him. "Best to stay put, love. Unless I've become completely rubbish at this, you won't be able to hold yourself up."

The cheeky _shit_; that confidence makes his cock jump. "I'm sure you're just a marvel at it," he says, grabbing a pillow to prop his head, because damned if he isn't going to watch every second of this. "Either way, you'll not catch me complaining about getting my dick sucked."

"You'd better not, I might just leave," Anders purrs, and then he's leaning forward and licking the tip of his cock so coyly, and Garrett's toes curl. It starts slow, Anders easing back the foreskin, tracing lazy, tingling circles up his thigh as his tongue grows bolder.

_That_, Garrett thinks, as Anders licks a long, hot stripe from base to head, was the emptiest threat he's ever heard. He sighs contentedly and watches Anders through heavy eyes.

Anders works lavishly, savoring every inch of him while Garrett grips at the bedsheets, and he's wearing a confidence like he's the master of all things blowjob. Which, right now, he might as well be. Garrett squirms, groans as that insatiable need for _more_ courses his body. "Come here often?" he smarts, breathily, but his mind is foggy, and Anders is two steps ahead of him.

"I hope to," he says. He cups Garrett's balls in hand, gently rolling them, slides his other hand under Garrett, fingers on the base of his back, and before he can get out a pithy, _bit far north, there, aren't you_, white hot pleasure rockets from his spine to his groin as smallest nips of electricity escape Anders' fingertips. He's never felt _anything _like it - it's like someone's touched a magic (capital M) nerve, and he has to bite the back of his hand to muffle his sharp cry. Anders does at it again, that tingle and touch of his fingers as he sucks eagerly at the head of Garrett's cock, and he moans around his arm, chews at his lip, then buries his hands in Anders' hair.

"That's rude," Anders says lightly, easing Garrett's hands from his hair and pushing them down at his sides. "I've barely gotten started."

"Yes, well, all that _magic's _made me a blushing virgin, so get to it," he says, but obligingly keeps his hands on Anders' shoulders instead.

Anders eases off the sparkles for a moment, sliding bare fingers along his erection like worship, other hand still gently playing at his balls, letting the slow burn of need agonizingly build. Then he leans down, granting him the smallest of warning smirks, and Garrett gasps when his balls are suddenly enveloped in a wet, blinding heat - Anders has drawn them into his mouth, tongue rolling over the loose, soft skin. Garrett loops a flexible leg around Anders' neck, pulling him closer. His cock is painfully unattended, because he's painfully _hard_, the gasps coming unbidden from his mouth now, and _bollocks to this_.

He grabs Anders by the nubby topknot, and this time he has no smart reply; he just flings Garrett a breathy smile, eyes crinkling, and takes him into his mouth.

"_Anders_," he moans, foggy from the wonderful warmth of his mouth, sucking, licking, and Garrett slithers his other leg over Anders' shoulder, toeing down his skinny back. Anders pushes his legs impossibly further apart, but not impossibly for Garrett, because all that leaping and slashing and general roguery has left him rather _bendy_.

He's lost the struggle to keep his hips _down_, and Anders bobs forward, takes him so deeply his nose touches Garrett's groin. He can _feel_ his cock brush the back of Anders' throat, muscles spasming around him, sweet _Maker_, and the room is silent and heavy but for the sounds of skin and breath.

Anders is _gorgeous_ like this, head tucked between his legs, breath hitching as he deep-throats, and only possibly metaphorical sparks flying - Garrett can't tell if it's magic or just Anders, because Anders _is _magic.

He's _so close_, wrapped in that wet heat, thrusting into it, but suddenly the hand at his balls turns sharp, and the air is chilly on his dick as Anders withdraws. Just like that, he's off the tantalizing edge.

"Oh, you _bastard_," he says, groaning.

"My mother was a lovely woman," Anders smirks, voice a bit hoarse, his lips swollen and red like he's just had a dick in them, and when he lifts Garrett's thighs around his hips, Garrett growls.

"I suppose it's too much to ask if you've got anything, isn't it, you tease?"

"Unfortunately," he sighs, fingers dancing idly over Garrett's thighs. "Magic can only do so much, but- "

Garrett groans again, lurching toward the bedside drawer and rummaging for the phial of oil he keeps - _should have had it ready, so stupid _- then throws it at Anders maybe a little harder than strictly necessary.

Anders smirks and pulls the stopper with his teeth, and unless he spits it back into the bottle Garrett doesn't give a toss where it goes. He'll - _they'll _- use every bloody drop of it if he has anything to say about it, and Garrett always has something to say.

Anders sits back on the bed, gazing over Garrett's spread legs and glistening dick as he coats his fingers in oil, as if this was going to turn out any other way. Anders, he decides, is a master at his craft, and what an _excellent_ craft to master.

The reality of the situation hits him full force - he wants this so much, but not just _this_, he wants _all of it_, so as desperate as he is, he drags Anders up to kiss him again. But Anders is better at compromise than he lets on, his kiss thoughtful as he slips his hand between Garrett's legs, oily fingers teasing the sensitive skin so Garrett's shuddering against him.

"Are you ready?" Anders whispers.

"_Is that a real question?_"

Anders laughs, sitting upright as he slides his dry hand reverently down Garrett's taut belly, grasps his hip - and then he's pushing in, just the one finger, through tight muscle, and Garrett clutches at the bedsheets. Anders inhales sharply at the feel of him, wriggles his finger deeper, massaging _inside him_, and it feels _phenomenal_, but-

"Don't take - _nnngh_- " he moans as Anders strokes a little harder, "Don't take your time on _my_ account."

"Well, I wouldn't want to disappoint," he says, and Garrett moans again when a second finger pushes in slow, so tight, and he clenches reflexively. Anders leans down and takes the head of Garrett's cock in his mouth, and he's not sure if it's to loosen him up or because Anders just can't help himself, probably both, but either way it's worked because now he's sucking and stroking and stretching, and Garrett's writhing down on his fingers.

"_Ohh_," he manages. "Do the electricity thing again. Inside me."

Anders stops, breath catching at Garrett's words. "Not yet, love," he says, "trust me." Garrett groans, pushing down on Anders' hand, legs spread, toes curling, eager for so much more, and Anders probably can't help the tiny sparks.

It's hard to get purchase to grind down, and he must look like an eager Rose whore right now, _more's the better_, and Anders isn't helping at all, content to just watch him, _rapt_, as he practically fucks himself.

"You're beautiful," he says softly. "All the time, but especially like this."

"That's my charm, now _do it_." Anders smirks in response - that lopsided grin of his - and withdraws his fingers, leaving an aching emptiness, and then he's pulling away, sitting at the edge of the bed and decidedly _not _sticking his dick in Garrett's ass.

"What are you _doing_?" he demands.

"I am not laying with my boots and trousers on. Not this first time, anyway."

"That's very ro_man_tic," Garrett groans, straining with the effort to not do... do _something_, likely involving hands and Anders and both of those things taking care of him. "Now get back in the blighted bed and _fuck me_, you _sod_."

Anders' hands stumble at his boot buckle and he flushes pink, Garrett notes with deep satisfaction, but he won't be deterred. "Not until I've done off these boots."

Garrett digs the heels of his hands into his eyes; he knows he's being petulant and impatient, but Maker, a man could only take _so much_. But when he hears the soft _thud _of boots hitting the floor, and opens his eyes to see Anders freeing himself from those incorrigible trousers, cock hard and reddened and delicately curved, it's all he can do to shift his open legs in invitation, as if he didn't already have warm oil spilling from his ass.

Anders (for his part) seems more than fine with it as he crawls toward him, smoothing his hands up the insides of Garrett's thighs, and it's finally going to bloody happen - but then he stops, leans back on his haunches, their cocks touching from the proximity, and unties the band in his hair, shaking it free and massaging the shape out of it.

"You'll pay for this, you know," Garrett growls.

Anders smiles, his hair falling in his face, looking like he should never _not _be in Garrett's bed. "Promises."

Anders grabs the phial again and drips it over his cock and into his hand, but for once in Garrett's miserable life he's determined to pull himself out of his typical mire of selfishness, so he stills Anders' hand and strokes with his own, reveling in the feel of Anders' cock under his fingers, in his tentative gasps as Garrett thumbs at the tip. Anders pushes into his touch, those muted little thrusts probably painful from restraint. The oil is especially slick, beading where Anders has already leaked, and Maker take him, Garrett can _feel_ how empty he is, how much he needs this, _now_.

"That's enough," he grunts against Anders' shoulder, "it's enough, it's _fine_, _Anders_..."

Anders nods silently, probably the most affirmation he can give, and Garrett tries to roll onto his front, but Anders stops him and cups his cheek.

"No," he says, "I want to see you." It's so puncturingly _sweet _that even now, trembling like a white Orlais virgin and wanting nothing more than to be fucked out of his mind, Garrett can't stop himself from brushing his lips against Anders' and smiling into a kiss.

All the fuzzy feelings in the world don't overcome the heat of Anders against him, and he snatches a pillow and stuffs it under his ass, elevating himself. Anders gets the wordless, frustrated message, sitting up with dick in hand, positioning, and Garrett feels the head press against his sensitive skin.

"_Please_," he hisses, not begging, definitely not begging.

And then Anders eases forward, pushing in, past that tight muscle, and he groans deep, "Ohh, _Garrett_..."

He forces himself to relax, adjust to the feeling of Anders' cock, _inside him_, slowly filling him, thick and deep. It should burn, but Anders' suddenly cool hand is on his hip, so it _doesn't_, no pain, all stretch and heat. He's barely got sense left enough to notice Anders, face buried in Garrett's chest, dazed at how tight he is - for the first time tonight, Garrett's wiped that clever expression off his face, stripped him to gasping and gnawing at his own lip, like being inside him has made him finally lose control.

Anders chuckles, a desperate noise, and Garrett can feel the exertion of his body, of his _willpower_, fighting to not stay in this clingy but spectacular limbo forever, or at least too long to still be considered _decent sex_. But then Anders gets it together, his hands back on Garrett's hips, and when he pulls out, _pushes _back in, it steals Garrett's breath.

"_Maker_,", he moans.

"_Anders_," Anders corrects.

_You utter scamp_, he wants to say, wants to grab his ass and pull him tight, wants more of that cock deep inside him, Anders all around him. He feels every taut thrust, the friction of him pushing through muscle, and he spreads his legs, wraps them tighter around Anders' waist, anything to pull him closer, drive his cock deeper. Anders moans, whispering his name as he crushes his hips down, and Garrett can't hold his eyes open anymore. Anders' hand is at his balls again, fingers tugging, rolling, sending jolts of pleasure and that not-quite-electricity, and it's a wonder he can keep up his rhythm with fingers dancing at the head of Garrett's cock and Anders' mouth - still tingling - catching at a nipple. The whole room is crackling with energy.

He digs his heels into Anders' back, but it's _not enough_, so Garrett clutches Anders tight and with a grunt rolls him over, onto his back, dick still buried inside him, and slides down all the way until he can feel Anders' groin against his ass. Anders' grasps his hips as Garrett wipes the sweat from his brow, clutches at his own hair, and rolls his hips _forward_.

Anders' mouth is caught open as he stares up at Garrett through messy hair, just _watching_ him as he rides shamelessly, grinding down, searching for that _spot_-

"_Oh,_" Garrett gasps, catches his breath, groans, "_Right there, yes._"

Anders manages an elated smile, gently stroking the underside of Garrett's dick, thumbing at the tip as Garrett builds up rhythm quickly, anything to hit that spot again and again, Anders' hips raising to meet him with a satisfying slap of skin against skin.

He's breathing hard now, sliding onto his elbows and bowed around Anders, angling _just so_ as Anders thrusts tightly into that spot of nerves, and it's so good, so perfect.

The pressure is building, deep inside him, almost unbearable, and he hears himself moan - then Anders stills, pulls out, and the moment is gone _again_, maddeningly out of reach. Garrett can't move; he's paralyzed and _empty_ without Anders inside him. Anders pulls him low, whispers hotly in his ear, "_Headboard_." He scrapes his teeth over Garrett's ear, on that spot high on his neck behind his beard, and Garrett somehow finds it in himself to obey. Unwinding himself from Anders is torturous, but he does it, maneuvers up, away, on his knees and clutching the headboard.

Anders is at his back, hand sliding around his waist, cock pressed against him, ready, and the anticipation is practically enough to kill him. The vague part of his brain that still functions is swearing to pay Anders back tenfold, but then Anders pushes in, filling him so slowly, so _completely_, and his thoughts vanish. Garrett fights a groan down, doesn't say anything, just listening to Anders' desperate breathy noises.

"Just _do it_," Garrett finally breaks, "Maker, you are the biggest tease in _history of the world_." He feels Anders grin against his shoulderblade, and then he's moving, thrusting, driving even deeper than before.

He tries to push back, practically bloody bouncing on Anders' cock, his moans getting louder, unbidden and wavering, and with as deep and strong as Anders pushes, it doesn't take long for the pressure to mount again.

Anders presses a finger just above where his cock is buried in him, and Garrett feels the tingling for a split second before white heat floods his body, and suddenly every thrust, every brush against _that spot_ is magnified. Garrett can't stop his shout, and he loses his grip on the wood, falling, but that only drives Anders' thrust harder, and _that's all he needs_.

Teeth grinding, face twisted, snapped tight and drugged by that unstoppable pace of Anders deep inside him, Garrett uncoils, _releases_. Orgasm rockets through him, amplified by magic, whiting out his vision and roaring in his head, and somewhere on the other side of coherence he feels Anders muffles a cry as he comes inside him, dazzling and freeing and probably sticky.

Garrett exhales shakily.

They're both curled around the headboard, and Garrett falls into a boneless flop. Anders is still lazily stroking him, still buried inside him, and normally it would start to hurt, but all that blighted magic... the room is spinning pleasantly and he just feels like he's floating.

Anders snakes his arms around him, his lips at Garrett's neck, possessive, _gentle_. He finally notices Anders' hands, callused but smooth, smoother than his own, smoother than the Lothering boys', not quite as smooth as the girls'.

"Go lacking for three years," he hears Anders say, still breathless, behind him, "you have to find _some_way to make it last."

Garrett snickers with the only energy he can muster.

They finally pull out and fall backward on the bed, tangled in the pillows and each other. Anders gazes at him, skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, on his back, hair plastered to his face and looking thoroughly _fucked_. He's _gorgeous_.

"I think I owe Isabela a sovereign," Garrett says, because every other thought running through his head is a bubbling miasma of deep and intense _feelings_. "We didn't bet anything. I just feel like, after _that_, I probably owe her _something_."

Anders laughs, then rolls over to nuzzle his face in Garrett's neck; he's such a _cat person_. His stubble tickles, and Garrett slides his arm around Anders, playing idly with his hair.

"I'm serious," Garrett says, "you could write a book with Varric, 'Having The Most Brilliant Magic-Sex and Why Mages Should Be Free'. All that celibacy, a good rutting and..." he fumbles, "capital-M-magic fingers is _bound _to take the edge off. Chantry attendance shoots up, sex revolution, we can stuff the priests into corsets- "

"Garrett," Anders murmurs, and he _must_ in a good way, because he just looks up at Garrett, adoration in his tired eyes. "You really should stop talking, you're terrible at it," he says, and the obviously resultant kiss is obviously slow and sweet.

* * *

><p>"I love you," Anders says. The room is quiet, warm from what's left of the fire and their second go of it, and everything smells of sex. It's not quite dawn, and Garrett had been idly (and bonelessly) wondering if he could work in another round of buggering Anders face-first into the coverlet before the moon sets.<p>

But Anders' soft words suddenly sink like a stone, and Garrett opens his eyes. Anders sits up, slowly, deliberately, and only the sudden weightless feeling in his chest pushes Garrett to join him.

"I love you," he repeats, like it's a revelation, like Garrett can't see it in the crows at his eyes, can't feel every pulse of it in his sex.

He takes Garrett's hand, laces Garrett's fingers in his, their naked legs wound together in the stained sheets, but that hint of distance still between them, the last remnants of that guard that kept them from this moment for three years, or at least from being bed-mates, because he's not sure when _this moment_ came about, only that it's been a _long bloody time_.

"I've been holding back from saying that," he says, gaze glued everywhere but Garrett's face. "You should have a normal life, not be tied down to a fugitive with no future." Anders is talking, reasoning and doubting like he always does, but then his jaw is set, and his hands tighten around Garrett's.

"But I don't ever want to leave you."

It's like a spring flood, he's overwhelmed, the words that normally burble like frothing mud from his mouth failing him, for better or worse, and there's nothing for it, so he just shits, "_Want a sandwich?_"

...Oh, _that_ could have been better.

Anders rolls his eyes and plants his face on Garrett's shoulder - his new favorite place, apparently - and he can feel Anders' chuckle against his skin.

"You'll be an inspiration to generations of romantic poets."

Garrett doesn't hide his relief or his smile, because this is part of it, what twists his insides about and subdues his kicking and screaming as it pushes him into the light. "They'll sing songs of my exploits," he says. "Grandiose tales of slaying small dragons and rescuing kittens and scruffy blond men from the sewers- " Anders tangles a hand in his hair, " -then wooing them with my _irresistible_ wit."

"That must be it," Anders says lightly, tracing lines in the muscles at his shoulders. "Why else would I put up with this carpet you call a torso?"

"I'm very Fereldan," Garrett huffs, "and I'm not _that_ hairy,"

"You're perfect."

Garrett's mouth twitches, full to bursting with all sorts of terrible jokes and not-quite-but-still-maybe embarrassed deflections, but he shuts up for _once_, lets it lapse into silence, the dying crackle of the fire a kind of solace.

Being honest got Anders naked and between his legs, in his house, in parts of himself deeper than any of that.

It's worth another try, at least.

"I want you _right here_," Garrett says, hand clenching at the sheets beneath them, "until the day we die." He half-wants to play it off as a joke, because right now he could spend every moment he has left with Anders in his bed, _their_ bed, and if the sex is anything like _that_ again he suspects he doesn't have much time left anyway, but those creeping tendrils of _maturation_ and _being a decent human_ and Anders' hands in his keep it solid, keep him real.

"Do you mean that?" Anders asks, voice soft and eyes as intense as he can probably muster, but not half as intense as the thoughts likely swirling in his head. "You would tell the world, the _Knight-Commander_, that you love an apostate, and you'll stand beside him?"

The fire finally dies, leaving only the moon and his answer.

* * *

><p><em>AN: does it still count as an epilogue if it's like half the word count? who cares because oh my fucking god I almost spilled tears over this stupid thing and now it is done and hopefully it is decent. ten millions billions thanks to spicyshimmy, elleblr, and camilladilla for beta and the most heart-wrenching encouragement and just generally putting up with my terrible and constant whining._


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